


Prime Directive

by orphan_account



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Drabble, Other, This is angsty because I was feeling it, basically Jim's a dad, checkov's possibly underage drinking depending on where in the galaxy you are, chekov is angsty as well, graphic mentions of russia, jim is chekov's dad, mentions of igor the vodka, welp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 11:40:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18031040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Jim finally goes round the bend.





	Prime Directive

**Author's Note:**

> Gentlemen:  
> 1\. I own none of Star Trek  
> 2\. I imagined this as TOS but go buckwild  
> 3\. Jim is not uncaring towards Uhura I just couldn't bring myself to write it  
> 4\. The anecdotes on Russia are (1) based on the rambles of my singular Russian friend (2) speculative and fictitious

Chekov's head limply hit the ground when he let go. He tried for a rise like a blind man, because he couldn't see, but all clarity was there, yet lost. He couldn't bring himself to care although every faculty in him begged for cessation. The sky was blue. The ship was up there. It waited. There was a seat at the helm, dead ahead of his own, which he'd have to look at every day, and remember. He did not know whether to thank or curse the lack of families bound by blood. But there was a family. It wouldn’t take this well.

As smart as he was — it’s not that every day that one becomes helmsman at a starship in the first quarter of his life — the kid had never learned how to play chess. He remembered his wide-eyed delight at watching Spock and him go about their usual game after shift, tutting Jim into silence when he tried to explain, and trying to figure out the proper movements to the pieces with intuition. It had taken him only fifteen minutes. Afterwards, he had asked Spock for a game.

Though his counterpart seemed unfazed watching Chekov try to hold his ground with that haughty, taciturn stare (Jim always thought that Spock always played chess with a side of poker), he knew that he was impressed from the opening to the end. When Chekov lost at his twenty something move, and his eyebrows drew together in half a measure of anger and half a measure of shock, Jim clapped the boy on the back with a laugh, and Spock extended him his gratitude for the game. The honour of being thanked by Spock was like an intravenous shot of serotonin.

Following the incident, he made Sulu be his practice along with the AI, and with dark eyes bouncing off of each piece in hunger, in curiosity, the boy became a formidable opponent in the little time he’d known the game.

The hunger. The curiosity. One night, he’d told Jim that one does not up and study physics in Russia. It was after shift, and Jim had been sleepless, and they found and sat by each other in a rec room with replicated coffee. At least, Jim’s was coffee, but the little, inconspicuous cup in Chekov’s hand could have been _Igor_ for all he knew. He didn’t care as long as it wasn’t on duty, he had no right to, and after all, Starfleet was a navy, as peaceful as it may be, and soldiers are known to drink. Most likely having read his mind, Chekov asked whether the Captain would like a sip. Jim was not entirely devoid of manners. He nodded and the boy dunked one fourth into his coffee.

It was strong.

Chekov told him of his hometown, and Jim didn’t tell him of his, but he imagined the snow in Petersburg and the dead cats in the frost, the wind like a motor engine, tiny Babushka Chekov spading her potatoes, the steam of newly made borscht on the electric stove or the hearth with a romanticism only the hum of the Enterprise could scrape off of him. America and Russia were three miles and three centuries away from each other at certain points, Chekov told him. Russia was where it was invented, Russia was the garden of eden, Russia was home, but she also ate her children, and to stay afloat in her deadly womb, he’d had to kick his feet.

Not everything was said aloud. There was no need to. Chekov retired with a tired smile, gripping his drink tightly. Jim wondered what ate at him deeper down. He wondered why his chest felt leaden.

To his surprise in hindsight, Jim didn't stagger. His hand was unfaltering. He remembered every jest, every breath. He remembered the time to the dot. It was a hot day. That made the bodies smell up early. Pavel's cracked head was depositing blood under the iron toecap of his boots, and it smelt like iron, and was just as cool when his fingers groped around in it. Nyota's hand lay forgotten at her side, stared at by unblinking eyes. It would be better to close their eyes before he– it'd be better for them to be dignified _in morte_. Yet a persistent tug against his volition made it known that time was essential. That'd be done later. There'd be a memorial. There would be present the pain which he was refusing to process now. What was he in a rush for, though? A faint recollection tinged his memory. He stood up.

And for the first time in his ever illustrious and short career, Jim Kirk yanked his phaser free, pointed it at the enemy and breached the prime directive.

**

“Scotty,” he said into the communicator when he was done. He sat between his friends. His slacks had soaked up too much blood, and nearly none of it was red. Jim felt tired. “Lock on to us. Three to beam up."


End file.
